Within this highly stratified social system, the Roman government had three branches, the executive, the aristocratic, and the democratic. The executive branch consisted of two annually elected consuls, the highest positions in the Roman government. It was very deliberately a diarchy, much as it was in Sparta, stemming from a deep, ingrained resistance to a single ruler or king.
The Roman Senate was the aristocratic branch of the government. The senators tended to be the wealthiest men in Rome—members of the patrician order, large land owners, or high-ranking magistrates.
The democratic branch of the government consisted of three voting assemblies—the Tribal, the People’s, and the Century Assemblies.
The Tribal Assembly, which included all male citizens, was a gathering of Rome’s thirty-five tribes and was presided over by a magistrate, often one of the consuls. The tribes were originally geographically based, but by my time in Rome, they loosely represented Rome’s urban and rural districts. During an election, each tribe voted as a unit, and a decision required a majority or eighteen of the tribes’ support to be passed. Due to the variations in population density, the urban tribes had considerably more members than the rural tribes, meaning the vote of an individual in the urban areas carried less weight than that of a citizen in the rural areas. This was typically Roman. The more land you owned the greater was your part in the decision making of the government. The Tribal Assembly was called together to provide information to the populace or for the election of minor magistrates.
The People’s Assembly was arguably the most democratic of the assemblies. It was made up entirely of plebs and was presided over by a plebeian tribune. The People’s Assembly voted on decisions to go to war, elected Rome’s top magistrates, and voted on legislative and judicial issues. The People’s Assembly also voted by tribe, and a candidate or a piece of legislation needed a majority of the tribes’ support to be elected or to pass. Once again, land ownership played a part in the value of an individual’s vote, but it wasn’t as skewed to the wealthy as were the other assemblies.
The Century Assembly was essentially a military assembly made up of all the soldiers and military officers in the city-state. It was also divided into the thirty-five tribes, then further divided into centuries. Originally a century was a military unit, containing one hundred men and a presiding officer, the centurion. During my time in Rome, a century was a voting unit rather than a military unit. There were one hundred and ninety-three centuries, designated either junior or senior. The junior centuries contained active duty soldiers, ages seventeen to forty-five. The senior centuries were made up of soldiers over forty-five, who were either inactive reserves or served as part of the garrison in Rome.
Because land ownership was a prerequisite to being in the army, the centuries were ranked in five classes based on wealth or as equites. Centuries of the first class included the wealthiest men in Rome, patricians or large land owners like Marcellus. Much like the rural tribes, centuries of the first class contained fewer members than the centuries of the other classes, which increased in membership size with descending class. While a first-class century might have fewer than one hundred members, a fourth- or fifth-class century might contain several thousand members made up of Rome’s poorest citizens. Of the one hundred and ninety-three centuries, there were eighty first-class centuries, twenty second-, third-, and fourth-class centuries, thirty fifth-class centuries, and eighteen equestrian centuries.
Instead of voting by tribe, the Century Assembly voted by century. A candidate was elected by receiving a majority or ninety-seven of the centuries’ support. The centuries voted by roll call, starting with the equites, then the classes first to fifth. At the moment a candidate received the necessary ninety-seven votes, the election ended. For instance, if the eighteen equestrian centuries and the eighty first class centuries voted for the same candidate, which happened more often than not, their votes would establish a majority and the other centuries’ votes were unnecessary. In this marginally democratic way, the upper orders—equites and patricians—held great sway in the Century Assembly.
The Century Assembly elected the two consuls, all other high ranking military officers, and every five years two censors. The two censors were particularly powerful politically. They took the census and were responsible for ranking each citizen by wealth and moral character in the five classes. The higher one’s class, the more taxes that individual paid and the greater his responsibility to the state. Only equites or members of the first class could be elected to a magisterial or military position or be a member of the Senate.
When the Roman Republic was first formed, some three hundred years before my time in Rome, all consuls, senators, and other elected magistrates came from the patrician class. The patrician families controlled everything that happened in Rome. The People’s Assembly did vote on various legislation during the year, but only on issues that were first determined by the Senate. The plebeian influence was token at best. As time passed, however, this patrician control created tremendous tension in the populace between those with wealth and those without. This set the stage for the conflict of the orders.
In the fifteenth year of the Republic, the entire order of plebs left Rome to protest the inequity of the governing system. Rome was at war at the time and the Senate had little choice but to acquiesce. A new position was added to the government. Five tribunes would be elected by the People’s Assembly. These “tribunes of the plebs,” as they were called, presided over the People’s Assembly and served as the plebeian voice in the Senate. They had the power to question magisterial decisions, to veto acts set in place by the Senate, and to intervene in actions ordered by the consuls. This new political position was a powerful addition to the governing process, but the patricians still maintained considerable authority and the tensions remained.
Another hundred and twenty-five years passed. One of the deepest plebeian concerns was that both consuls were elected from patrician families. In the 142nd year of the Republic, the Lex Licinia Sextia was enacted requiring that at least one of the consuls be plebeian. Little by little, the plebs were making progress in politics, but the Senate and the two religious orders, the College of Pontiffs and the College of Augurs—both very powerful organs of the Roman state, were still only open to patricians. During the next fifty years, one law at a time, plebeians gained access to both religious colleges and the Senate.
By the time I came to Rome, plebeians had a much expanded part in governance compared to the early days of the Republic. One of the two men sharing leadership of the state was a plebe. There were many plebeian senators, though only the wealthiest in the order. A plebeian could be pontifex maximus, the highest religious position in the state, and the laws passed by the People’s Assembly had to be obeyed by both plebs and patricians. But the system of voting was still heavily biased toward the landed class, and the aristocracy continued to dominate Roman politics, if not by controlling every high position in the government and two of the voting assemblies, then by using its wealth and its unity of purpose to manipulate plebeian magistrates or anyone else in their way. Although often referred to as something from the past, the conflict of the orders, in my view, still divided Roman politics and was the source of a constant power struggle among the classes.
In a sense, this tension was at the heart of all Roman politics, leading to a steady, and at times, artful manipulation of the lower class by the ruling class. Alliances between clans, alliances between patrician and plebeian magistrates, alliances between the tribunes of the plebs and senators, rhetorical posturing, and religious theatrics were all part of a game to bend the masses to the will of the wealthy. This was Roman government in a nutshell, an aristocracy of the wealthy, with a well-contained and marginalized democracy of plebeians beneath it.
CHAPTER 5
Before daylight the morning after our arrival, Edeco met Marcellus, Marcus, Publius, and me outside the stable with our horses bridled and ready to ride. A dense fog gave an
eerie haunt to the coming of dawn. We set out for Rome as in a dream, accompanied by Asellus and the turma of cavalry that had come with us from Ostia. We were headed to the southwest side of Rome to the Temple of Bellona, where Marcellus would present a report on his last year in Syracuse to the Roman Senate. The ride, seven miles one-way, would be my second on horseback. I was still uneasy about riding, but Balius seemed to know this. His understanding of riders made up for my lack of experience.
Since our arrival in Ostia, Marcellus had become increasingly focused on the war and the politics he would need to navigate to achieve his most immediate goal, a consulship and an army. No soldier in Rome could boast of a greater military record than Marcellus. He had been elected consul three times at that point in his career. He was the only Roman general to hold his own on the battlefield against Hannibal, twice outside Nola. And now he would ask to lead his men into Rome in a celebratory triumph—his third, an unheard of achievement—for his successful siege of Syracuse. He was such a favorite among the plebeian populace it seemed a certainty. But many of the patrician senators were jealous of him, and the College of Pontiffs held him in disdain. As Publius had warned, Marcellus should anticipate some resistance to his request. A third triumph might be too much for a godless plebe.
After forty years as a soldier, twenty as a general, Marcellus had hardened to the process of working with the Senate. He had spoken a hundred times or more on the Senate floor, verbally sparring with men he didn’t respect, often about things he didn’t believe in.
Marcellus had spent ten years in the College of Augurs, learning the rituals and how to read the auspices. Divination was an integral part of Roman tradition and was deeply embedded in Roman politics and the military. You couldn’t become a ranking officer without some knowledge of these religious rituals. Marcus studied the subject now because it was necessary for his career.
Six years earlier Marcellus had resigned from the College of Augurs. He could no longer pretend to know the intentions of the gods through the reading of entrails or the actions of birds or incidental lightning strikes. Now fifty-seven years old and battle-worn, Marcellus had grown weary of both religion and politics. He had become stone cold sober with the weight of war. And yet, even as cynical as he had become, on this day he was determined to play the game any way necessary to realize his ultimate goal.
Marcellus sought the triumph more for his men than for himself. Rome was a nation of soldiers, much as Sparta was. Statesmanship was honored, but war and war alone held the true measure of a man. A Roman soldier’s pride shone its brightest when he marched from Mars Field into the city through Porta Carmentalis as part of a victorious army. For Marcellus personally, the triumph was important because the accolade might help him gain a consulship.
Marcellus rode in full armor that morning, as did our entire contingent, except for me. I wore a plain white tunic and carried my wax pad and bronze stylus.
In the gray light of the fog-muted morning, Rome rose up before us like a mountain coming into view out of the clouds. A massive stone wall, built by King Servius Tullius fifty years before the formation of the Republic, circuited the city. The fortress I had known at Syracuse was more formidable, and its parapets and gateways more elegantly designed, but the citadel of Rome was still imposing, defended by walls fifty feet tall and in some locations thirty feet thick. We spotted the Bellica Column from a distance, then, just outside the city walls, the fog shrouded Temple of Bellona.
The temple sat on a two-stage, stone plinth, with internal walls constructed of mud bricks covering a wooden frame. Its design was roughly that of a Greek temple—a rectangular floor plan, a peaked terracotta roof, a decorative pediment, and stone columns all the way around the exterior, but its lines were nothing like those of the huge temples I had seen in Syracuse with their luminescent white limestone and geometric perfection. The Temple of Bellona had a primitive feel to it, earthy and sensual, more Etruscan than Greek.
We dismounted at the base of the column as the sun appeared in faint resolve on the horizon to the east. Some three hundred senators fanned out in front of the temple, forming a semi-circle around the sacrificial altar that stood between us and the south porch of the building. Clusters of citizens were accumulating around the perimeter of the yard in anticipation of Marcellus’ military review, a sign of his popularity among the populace.
As with any public event of importance, the convening of the Senate began with a live sacrifice. A priest off to one side of the altar opened the ceremony by playing a short piece on a flute. When the music concluded, a senator wearing a white, purple-trimmed toga stepped up to the altar accompanied by a young woman in a white gown carrying a small torch and a man in a hooded saffron robe.
Marcus, standing beside me, whispered, “The man in the toga is Publius Licinius Crassus Dives, pontifex maximus, one of the most powerful positions in the Roman hierarchy. He’s hardly older than I am, Timon, and has yet to hold any military position. The woman is one of the Vestal Virgins, bringing the sacred flame. The man in the hooded robe is a flamen to assist with the sacrifice.”
Beside the altar was a brazier stacked with finely cut kindling. The Vestal Virgin applied her torch to the kindling to set it ablaze, then sprinkled wine and incense into the fire, causing the flames to hiss and jump. Off to my right, the crowd of bystanders parted. Two minor priests led a calf to the altar. The calf had been brushed and groomed. It wore a wreath on its head made of wheat stalks, and red ribbons were tied around its ears and tail.
With an extravagance of pomp and ceremony, the pontifex maximus lifted the edge of his toga over his head like a hood, recited a short prayer, then approached the calf. “Do you, calf, accept the honor of being offered to Bellona, the Goddess of War?”
The calf, with the help of the priest holding its lead, nodded. The Vestal Virgin gave the flamen a small pouch of salted flour, called mola, and a cup of wine. The flamen sprinkled the mola on the calf’s back, then dribbled the wine down its forehead. He withdrew a ceremonial flint knife from his robes and ran it lightly down the calf’s spine. He said a short prayer, then nodded. The two priests forced the calf to the ground and the flamen cut its throat.
We all watched as they bled the calf out. The flamen knelt beside the calf and used the ceremonial knife to slice open the animal’s belly from its genitals—it was a male—to its throat. He put his hands inside the animal and sorted through the entrails, withdrawing the lungs, the liver, the kidneys, the gall bladder, and the heart. One by one the flamen presented them to the pontifex maximus to inspect. When all the organs had passed muster, the pontifex announced with an unbecoming arrogance that the goddess Bellona approved the convening of the review. He then led the senators into the temple.
While the last of the senators entered the building, Marcellus approached Marcus and me. Marcellus spoke directly to me for the first time since we had left Ostia.
“Timon, I would like you to accompany us into the temple. I want you to write down everything that Quintus Fabius says during these proceedings. He is one of the oldest senators, past seventy years of age. Marcus will point him out to you, but his self-assured manner is impossible to miss.”
I nodded.
As we climbed the stairs to the building, Marcus whispered to me, “My father must think you are Archimedes himself, Timon. To bring a scribe as young as yourself to a Senate meeting is rare indeed.”
I remember this moment distinctly. For the first time in my life I realized that I might be smarter than I had given myself credit for. In the house of the Claudii, I was valued as a scholar. Only a year earlier, I had been a slave emptying chamber pots and assisting in a kitchen.
We entered the temple from the south porch, passing through an arched doorway into a tall windowless chamber, perhaps eighty feet by forty, called the cella. Torches mounted on the walls provided a minimum of light. Overhead, thick cedar beams spanned the ceiling. Mosaic tiles of blue, black, and white covered the floor in a bold pat
tern of circles inscribed in squares. A colorful mural depicting scenes from historic Roman battles ran in a wide band around the room. Shields, swords, helmets, and other war trophies hung on the walls. Plunder from previous wars—goblets of gold, jewel-encrusted crowns, and small ivory statuettes—adorned every shelf and table. A fifteen-foot statue of Bellona stood at the north end of the cella where the senators were gathered in small groups, talking among themselves. It was the fiercest statue of a woman I had ever seen. The sister of Mars stood with one leg uplifted and held a sword over her head, set to plunge it into any living thing. The workmanship was not up to Greek standards, but the intent was clear—the spirit of battle, the glory of war.
Upon seeing our entry, the senators broke from their conversations and spread out across the north end of the cella. All of them wore bright white togas, embroidered in purple. Many had white hair and beards. Some had red mantles draped over their shoulders.
After the commotion had settled, a man with a wooden cage containing two chickens came out of the crowd and advanced to the center of the room. Marcus nudged me. “Now the augur will ask for the auspices.”
An older senator stepped forward and accepted a handful of feed from the poulterer.
“That’s Fabius,” whispered Marcus. “He’s the senior-most augur.”
Fabius addressed the poulterer. “Tell me when the silence appears to exist.”
Gradually the room full of senators and observers quieted.
The poulterer announced. “Silence appears to exist.”
Fabius sprinkled the feed into the cage. “Tell me when the chickens begin to eat.”
The chickens appeared hungry and immediately began pecking at the feed. “They are eating now,” replied the poulterer.
The Death of Marcellus Page 4
